


Accomplice of My Desire

by Hazel75



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet, None - Freeform, Pretentious, Really No Plot, Skye - Point of View, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3285080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazel75/pseuds/Hazel75
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skye's reflections during sex with Coulson.  Inspired by a section on desire in Jean-Paul Sartre's Being and Nothingness.  That's why it sounds like a philosophy research paper at times and then other times verges off into terrible purple writing.  Anyhoo, it got written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accomplice of My Desire

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a quote from the aforementioned section of Being and Nothingness. My former professors would be so proud.

One of the most bittersweet acts is the cessation of desire in its completion, the end of embrace when once again one is fully aware of where beloved begins and lover ends, the returning to oneself.  To delay this moment, to extend the mutuality of existence is the object, a separate yet concomitant desire permeating the act of love. 

 

Skye had dozed off after an early morning lovemaking session, Coulson still resting on and in her after a great lassitude crept into their limbs.  When she comes back to herself a short time later, he covers her still.  As she runs light hands over his back and arms, she feels him stir, slight movement within her.

 

He presses his forehead to hers, brushing his nose against hers, before pressing his mouth to hers open and wet, stroking her tongue with his with lazy movements and pushing sticky damp hair away from her face with his fingers. 

 

She'd never been a huge man-on-top girl, and she's still not.  Except sometimes, sometimes with him there's nothing she wants more than to blanket herself with him, have him cover her entirely.  In these moments, him in and around her, his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his dick inside her and his body over hers, she gets wrapped up in the feel of him. 

 

It's only with him, through him, that she's begun to see the sex act as something other than the means to express attraction, to satisfy physical desire.  Sure, attraction and satisfaction both work in her, in him, and she relishes the sweet, sticky taste of each. 

 

He moves slowly, more a languid rocking with than a thrusting into, no separation and only small instances of friction -- his chest flattening her breasts and the feel of soft hair against her nipples, the places where rougher scarred tissue rests against smooth skin and his thighs barely rubbing against hers. 

 

She keeps her arms under his, sliding her palms against the hair under his arms and cupping his shoulders with fingers pressed into the skin there as he cradles her head in his hands, threading his fingers in her tangled hair. 

 

"I could stay like this for hours," she breathes into his mouth, their breath mingling.

 

She feels him smile slowly against her lips.  "Yes, me, too," he says pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. 

 

She moves her cheek against his, enjoying the rasp of his morning beard against her skin. 

 

She shifts her head slightly so that his eyes are all that she can see, filling her field of vision.  His are heavy-lidded but alert, and she can see every speck of the shifting color of his irises, every detail of the area around his eyes.  At other times, she's traced the lines which have formed here with fingertips but this morning she's content to trace with her eyes.   

He closes his eyes, and she speaks.  "Your eyes," she says between soft breaths, "keep them open.  On mine." 

 

He does as she asks, the tip of his tongue sticking out as he concentrates, intent on her, panting softly himself.  She wouldn't say she exists for him, but she experiences an aspect of rebirth again and again in his gaze, a reflexive re-creating. 

 

She can feel heat building from the soles of her bare feet upwards, muscles preparing to tense involuntarily from the subtle movements of his dick inside her.  She doesn't reach towards that heat, wanting instead to delay satiation, to extend the moment, bliss being a side effect and not the object of their combined efforts. 

 

His left hand moves to touch her jaw, her neck, her shoulder and then down to her ribs and her hip.  She wonders at how she feels shaped, formed, reborn under the caress of his hand, by his limbs against hers, his flesh inside her as though these elements didn't fully come into being until his touch. 

 

She takes his tongue in again, sucking it gently and moving her tongue against his, focusing on that sensation to stave off the pressure that continues to build below her stomach.  She laps at the roof of his mouth and reaches to trace the bones of his spine with the tips of her fingers and nails.

 

Completion has already been achieved and is being achieved in every moment with every touch.  Finally, though, she accepts the inevitable, panting _almost there, almost there_ against his mouth.  He holds her gaze, intent but increasingly helpless as though unsure of what's happening between them. 

 

"Stay with me," she says, pressing her thumb into his mouth. 

 

He scrapes his teeth against it before answering, "With you, Skye, I'm with you." 

 

When he speaks she feels herself tighten around him, her orgasm contracting and expanding as she feels him pulse within her.  She lets go.  With him retaining a tight grasp on her self has been obviated.  He doesn't seek to possess her but rather to take her in by giving himself -- mutuality preferred over dominance, love augmenting and transforming desire instead of possession reducing it to an animal instinct for release.  She hears whimpers escape her throat, and his breath comes out in soft moans against her mouth.    

 

She tightens her arms around him as they still against one another, wanting to prolong the moment, keep him over, around and in her because, right here, right now, she feels so full -- of him, his body, his smell, his come. 

 

"I love you," she says in an urgent voice, pulling him to her, wanting to push the words into his skin, imprint them on every cell in his body such that they become part of him as he has been imprinted on her. 

 

"I love you," he says matching her urgency, pressing his mouth to hers, his hips to her hips, his fingers into the skin of her arms.

 

She feels her eyelids growing heavy as he strokes her arm, resting his weight on her.  Eventually, they'll have to move, she knows, but she lets sleep claim her again this time.  


End file.
